


The Martyr's Regret

by Buggirl



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-03-16 07:51:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3480245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buggirl/pseuds/Buggirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can a single journey lead to meaningful contemplation on a past life full of regret? After defeat, Samson is transported to Skyhold to face trial.  He reflects on past deeds/misdeeds.  Prequel to 'Dead of the Night'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Defeat

The kick to the gut wakes him from a dream and he recoils before another one hit his shin. Stars greet the pain and he barks in response to yet a third kick, this time to his arm.

“Get to your feet. We’re leaving.” A gruff voice speaks.

He struggles to standing and tries to rub his eyes and nose but the chains around his hands won’t allow him to reach that far so instead he snorts loudly and spits on the ground. A push from behind makes him stumble back down and he looks up to the soldier who shoved him. 

“Where are we going?” He sneers.

The soldier doesn’t reply. He and another soldier drag him to standing again and out of the tent to a waiting cart.

“Let me take a piss at least.” He says irritably to the guard waiting nearby.

The guard motions for the soldiers to take him to the woods about 10 feet away. They let go of him but stand close at his elbow.

“Some privacy please, gents?” He asks and the soldiers let him walk forward a few steps into the lush forest. “Not unless you’re up for some comparisons or perhaps to help shake the old feller dry.” He says and laughs gruffly before sniffing and snorting again as he urinates.

“Don’t try anything funny.” One of the soldiers says.

He laughs in response. “I’m in chains and I have my dick out. Not going to get far now am I?” 

When he finishes they shove him back towards the cart and throw him in. He grunts and swears as his face grazes the splintered wood of the bottom before he manages to maneuverer himself onto the seat at the side. He expects a cage but this is a simple open cart. He looks around at the full garrison of inquisition soldiers readying to leave with him and grunts. They don’t need a cage. He won’t get five feet before the whole lot of them would be on him.

“Where are we going?” He asks another soldier who is standing next to the cart.

“Skyhold. For judgment,” she replies.

He laughs. “They’re judging people now?”

“They have the authority for judgment and punishment, yes,” she replies nervously before moving away from the cart and refusing to look at him again.

He did that to them. Most of them anyway. If they weren’t looking at him with thoughts of beating him up they cowered away. Terrified of his eyes and his now powerless armour. He’s surprised they haven’t tried to remove it yet. But he guesses the red lyrium on the outside is a deterrent to most soldiers wanting to lay a hand on him. He chuckles. Despite being in chains, he still wields a measure of power over them. 

The cart starts over the bumpy road from the Arbor Wilds. He scratches his nose on the shoulder of his armour and looks at the troops following the cart. Maker, they looked tired. He had failed Corypheus but the look on these soldiers faces told him that the master hasn’t lost yet. If they don’t kill him in judgment then he might once again rise to general if the inquisitor’s soldiers can’t get their strength back in time. But he is no longer sure about that.

He knows it takes a good week to get to the mountains. He hasn’t been that way since the assault on Haven. A growing unease settles in his stomach. He taps a finger from one hand on the palm of the other. A sign for him that’s he needs something soon. He’s been without the blue for longer, but he’s never been without the red. He closes his eyes and tries not to think about it.

_“Maddox, this probably isn’t the best time,” he said._

_“I’m sorry to ask this of you again, Samson. But you’re going out again can you please get this to her. Please? You’re the only one I trust.”_

_He looked at the letter in Maddox’s hand and then took it with a sigh. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” he replied. “Some of the others are becoming suspicious.”_

_Maddox smiled. “I know, I know. I just want to be with her, I… don’t know what I would do without her.”_

_Samson turned the letter over in his hand. He knew this was a dangerous game being played and he as go-between was probably going to end up in disaster. However, the longer he remained here in the Kirkwall circle, the longer his own conscience bothered him. He didn’t like what he saw and it was getting worse. He’d recently had a run in with a couple of others over the treatment of one of the younger female mages. Meredith was indifferent when he told her, and he thought to go to Cullen, but he wasn’t sure that was a good idea either. Cullen had been friendly with the two in question. If only Knight-Commander Guylian was in charge again, there wouldn’t be this bullshit to contend with. If he could bring light to one of these poor mage sods cursed as they were, he would do it. As long as he could._

_It was just a letter. What harm could there be?_


	2. Envy

Five hours into the trip he begins to feel the hard wood of the cart against his arse. He doesn’t mind. He’s been through longer trips than this with far more abrasive surfaces attached to his backside. However, he prefers if they would just let him walk. At least it would allow his legs to stretch, come his arrival at Skyhold, he won’t be stiff and sore. Not that they care for his comfort. He knows he’ll stink too. Now that would be grand, coming to the inquisition home base to stink it up. That’s the least he can do before they mark him for death. 

He laughs. The thought distracts him from a more worrisome one. One he knows he’ll have to deal with before journey’s end.

“Let me walk.” He stands and shouts to the soldier walking along beside him.

The soldier flinches at his shout but doesn’t acknowledge him further.

“I said, let me fucking walk for a bit.”

Another soldier comes up behind him and whacks him hard across the legs. It doesn’t hurt but it reverberates through his armour and makes him sway. He turns and snarls at the man “Fucker.”

“Sit down or we’ll chain you to the cart,” he replies. “This isn’t supposed to be a pleasant walk in the forest.”

“No fucking kidding.” He mutters under his breath and sits down.

He remembers days of Templar training where your feet are blistered from walking, your legs aching and the relief that comes when camp is set up for the night, a warm bed and hearty meal being almost more satisfying than sex. Almost. “Fuckers.” He mutters again. What do they care if he wants to walk all the way to fucking Skyhold?

When they finally come to the first village since leaving the Wilds, the cart slows down as they are drawn through the narrow streets of the village centre. Locals come out to cheer and gawk. There is anger too, unintelligible shouts, possibly directed at him. He’s not really sure and like the hard wood of the cart he doesn’t care.

A small group of men has gathered at the centre. They look to be farmers. They point and gesticulate as the banner men passed. They’re dressed in simple clothes and carry small leather bags likely stuffed with food for their meal break in the fields. He imagines bread and cheese, pickled onions and cured ham. They carry several bottles, he takes a bet with himself looking at their ruddy faces and bulbous noses its likely ale. 

Further down, almost at the edge of the village two women, one old and one young, lean against a stone fence. The old one has a weathered face and the young one is curvy with rosy cheeks. He catches the eye of the young woman and she looks away quickly. He notices the ring on her finger and feels a sudden pang of envy for what the men have. To go into the field, live their simple life of hard and honest labour, and then come home to a wife like that, whose thighs he thinks would be as welcoming as her bosom. It’s an odd thought for him because he’s never desired it before. A settled life was not on his list of must haves. Even when expelled from the order it was not something he contemplated. Even if he had, the need for lyrium would have robbed that from him too. 

They stop just outside the village for a rest break and the troops split off into groups. They pass him some food and he eats it without thinking. Most food lost its flavor when he had started taking the red so he eats only for sustenance, to satisfy the growl in in stomach with no comfort in mind.

He’ still eating when he notices the glances of several children who gather nearby. No amount of effort by the soldiers seems to shoo them away and one young boy bravely approaches the ones currently guarding him.

“Why is he in chains?” he asks.

“Because he’s a bad man.” The soldier explains to him.

“He looks sick. Is he sick?” The boy asks and points to him as he remains seated on the ground eating the remains of his meal.

The guard looks to him and he gives the soldier the toothiest of grins before noting the spark of fear that reflects briefly in the man’s eyes. The soldier quickly looks away.

“Yes, he is, a little.” 

The boy keeps staring at him so he gives him a similar smile. The difference being is that what he sees in the boy’s face is not fear. There is no sudden wide eyed gape. Simple curiosity is all his eyes reflect and he returns the wide smile before running off.

He laughs to himself then stops when he looks at his hands. They are shaking uncontrollably.

_“What have you done, Samson?” Cullen asked._

_Samson noticed the deep line of concern that suddenly appeared on the knight captain’s face as he spoke._

_He closed his eyes and pressed a forefinger and thumb on top of his eyes before answering. “It’s just a letter, Cullen. A fucking letter. For the love of the Maker, that’s all it was.”_

_“You know that’s not how she’ll see it. You know what she’ll do?” he replied angrily._

_“Yes I think I might have some idea,” he said._

_“I can’t help you with this one. You know that. What you’ve been doing is wrong. You can’t go on being so…”_

_“So what?” he replied defensively._

_“So soft,” Cullen said._

_“ Soft? Is that what you think this is? I’ve seen what goes on in this fucking circle and it’s getting worse, not better. The lives of these mages… it’s not about protecting them or protecting others from them anymore. It’s straight up abuse and when one of them cracks, they turn. And then it’s time for the swords to come out its wholesale slaughter.” His voice was shaking as he spoke. “I’ve seen the face of some of these newer recruits. They get off on it. The abuse. It’s sickens me because I can’t do shit about it and it appears no one else can or will either.”_

_Cullen started chewing on his bottom lip. “We try to make sure abuse doesn’t happen, and we try and weed out those not suitable. It’s a difficult job we have and dangerous too. Mages are dangerous. I know I’ve…”_

_He cut him off before he finished. “Yes, yes, yes, we’ve all heard it before. What, you don’t think I haven’t seen my fair share of abominations? Or been in danger from those possessed? That I haven’t felt fear at that? Andraste’s fucking tits, Cullen. You don’t have a monopoly on having seen terrible acts performed by possessed mages. Or…,” He stopped talking and dropped his eyes to the floor and sighed. He had forgotten with whom he was speaking. It wasn’t Cullen who was the villain in this piece._

_Cullen’s face was twisted and he could see that he’d taken a step to far. That Cullen had seen more than him. Had been through more than him. His life as a Templar had been easy compared with Cullen’s. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Oh, Maker. I’m sorry Cullen I… “_

_Cullen put up his hand and shook his head. “It’s not me you have to say sorry too. Maybe Meredith will be lenient. But I highly doubt it.” He paced the room as he spoke. “I can’t pretend it will go well for you. Because I know it won’t. There’s two of Meredith’s guards outside come to escort you to her. I’m sorry, Samson. I know you’re a good Templar. But my hands are tied on this one.”_

_When he entered Meredith’s office, her back was to the door. He stood there for 10 minutes and she only turned around when the two Templars who had escorted him brought in another person. It’s Maddox and he’s wearing the sign of tranquility._

_Samson placed his hand over his mouth and closed his eyes. When he opened them again he turned to the mage. “I’m so sorry Maddox, I… I had no idea it would come to this.” He thought he might be disciplined, but Maddox made tranquil? His head began to thump._

_“It’s quite all right Samson,” Maddox replied._

_“No, no it’s not, Maddox. It’s not.”_

_Meredith turned at this point. “He should be thanking you. And you should not be sorry, Templar Samson. It’s for the best.”_

_“How can you say that? All over a love letter? A fucking love letter?”_

_Meredith raised her eyebrows “You should not be talking to me in such a manner, Templar.” She walked around the desk to face him. “Maddox has been tried, found guilty of corrupting an officer of the chantry and the Templar order. He’s summarily accepted the punishment of tranquility. He will remain here in the circle and be of great benefit without being in danger of possession.”_

_He stood, shaking his head refusing to believe what he had witnessed. “You mean forced to accept it or die? He was never at risk of possession.”_

_Meredith ignored his comment. “You on the other hand are really no longer fit for the office of Templar. You are expelled from the order. Get your things and get out within the next hour.”_

_“That’s it? Years of service and that’s how it ends?” He thumped his fist hard on Meredith’s desk knocking over a small vase in the process._

_Meredith motioned for the guards to remove him. He shrugged the guard’s hands off him as they attempted to manhandle him out the door. He spat on the floor at her feet and left without saying another word._


	3. Gluttony

Tonight there’s a ruckus in camp. His yells and screaming have woken most of the soldiers. Everyone has gone on to high alert. The concern is that there is some plan to free him, that a reprisal attack is imminent. They needn't worry, he screams only for the red.

It had started soon after they made camp. An itch in his leg that bothered him. He thought at first that it was just dirt and grime from the road building up layers on his skin. Enough for a small irritation to begin developing. It grew and spread. By 11 that evening, he felt as though someone had dumped a bucket of small insects on him. He feels as though his skin is crawling and it’s getting worse. 

His agitation begins to worry the guards. When they called the Captain over to ask her advice. She tells them as long as he’s not dying he should be left in peace with his torment.

How long has it been? Since he had the red? It has to be 3 days at least. Without the blue it usually took at least that long for things to go pear shaped, he’d gone 3 weeks once without the blue and survived. But this was nothing like withdrawal from the blue. With the blue it was a slow build up and a need that could not be satisfied. It plateaued at an irritation that never left him. It was never too much of a bother, he always had a source for more lined up and ready to go. Here though. The red. Maker, the red. It was only Corypheus who stopped him from flailing his own skin. He had consumed enough red to feed a small army and now he had no source to dull the pain of withdrawal. There is no one with the Master’s abilities here who can do that.

When he starts screaming its 2 am. It takes five guards to hold him down as he writhes and shudders in his armour. The captain relents on calling a healer. She does not want the blame if he dies on her watch.

The surgeon and healer who come, confer in the tent where he still thrashes and moans. At one point they gag him for the noise he makes it becomes difficult to hear one another. There is also fear he may bight off his own tongue.

“This isn't good. Can’t you use healing magic for this?” The Captain asks the mage. She’s rubbing her top lip nervously.

“This is red lyrium we’re talking about, Captain. Not the regular stuff. Maybe we can give him some of the regular lyrium and it might calm him down. Otherwise we might be in trouble.”

“Trouble? What do you mean ‘trouble’?” She asks.

The surgeon steps into the conversation. “The way he’s moving and his eyes are rolling in his head. I'm surprised he hasn't had a seizure yet. I'm also surprised he’s not dead. I think that’s the trouble we’re talking about.” He replies.

The Captain shakes her head. “Shit. Can we get a note to Skyhold and back before we do? There’s been no order for us to say yes to that sort of treatment for him.”

“I think, Captain, you might just have to do it without approval from the Inquisition. From what we know from the Inquisitor’s and Commander Cullen’s investigation, he’s consumed a lot of that bloody red lyrium. A positive glutton for the stuff by the sounds. It’s why they had such a battle on their hands at the well. He was almost invincible. It took finding their tranquil and crafting a rune to destroy the armours power.” The mage replies.

“Do it then. Give him some blue. And let’s pray that it works.” The Captain says.

The healer requests they remove the gag and the screaming begins again. “Shush now, here, we have something for you.” She takes his head firmly with one hand and brings a draught of lyrium to his lips. “Here, drink this.”

The soldiers still hold him down and he stops shrieking long enough to drink greedily from the vial. It takes a few moments, he still fidgets but the effect on the screaming is immediate. The camp goes silent once again. A mutual sigh of relief is shared with all those in the tent.

The Captain asks one of the soldiers to message Skyhold immediately. Until they hear otherwise, they’ll administer the blue lyrium as often as needed. Happy that he’s at least alive, the Captain leaves to deal with the unease created among her soldiers. She hopes that no civilians were disturbed either.

He lies in a daze. The lyrium has hit him hard. It’s like being knocked over by a war nug. There is still an edge, but the itch on his skin is dulled, his mind slowly growing quieter for need of the red. He thinks it might be the difference between the red and blue, the pain and the fire. At this moment though, it’s only relief that floods his senses and that’s all that matters.

The healer stays by his side and as he looks through misty vision he sees that she’s very young. “I’ll help you.” He slurs. “I know a way for you to escape your fate.” 

He passes exhausted into a dreamless sleep.

_He lay on the bunk utterly spent. Cravings for lyrium gnawed at his gut. It’s only been two weeks, but a week without it, the first in the last twenty plus years has taken a toll on him fast. Two weeks and he was beginning to climb the walls. They had dumped him with little other than the clothes on his back and coins unlikely to last more than a couple of months, he had nothing and no one. Now he had this piercing need too._

_He’d found a place to board, fortunately, despite all the refugees crammed into the city. It was clean and tidy, almost like barracks, but he knew he’d have to find elsewhere soon. This place wasn't the most private. He’d need a job too, but for now, his most pressing concern was the withdrawal from the lyrium. He knew there would be some discomfort, but this was something else entirely._

_He tried to sleep, but it was no longer something he found easy. He’d gone from easily falling into slumber to almost total insomnia in a matter of four days. He planned to go to the Chantry first thing tomorrow to ask them for help. He’s convinced they’ll provide a supply of lyrium, a support for all his years of service as a Templar._

_He’s sure they will. Won’t they?_

_The Kirkwall Chantry doors looked large and imposing. He’s not sure why exactly, he’d been here every other day less than a fortnight ago. Then, they were just doors to him, but now he felt dwarfed by them. They looked an impenetrable, unwelcoming fortress._

_Inside he’s greeted by Wilhelm. Usually a friendly banter would have ensued. Not today though, Wilhelm simply pointed to a seat in the corner where other petitioners waited patiently._

_So he waited._

_Finally, after a two hour wait, he’s escorted to the door and allowed inside to speak with Sister in charge of petitioning. A guard remained at the door nearby._

_“I’m sorry to keep…” The sister tipped her head to one side when she saw him. “Samson? What are you doing here? And why are you not in your armour?”_

_He bowed his head in relief when he saw who it was. He knew Sister Eileen from when he first joined the order. He a fresh faced 18 year old, her, a forty something beauty. They had been friendly, and at one stage flirty. In his manner, he’d tried to seduce her. It was clumsy and stupid and she had laughed at him but not in a humiliating manner. Over the years, he had known her to be nothing but kind and considerate towards him and others._

_“I'm no longer a Templar, Sister. Retired.” He said to her. No need for her to know the truth now he thought._

_“Ah, I wasn't aware. Come sit down. What brings you here?” She directed him to a couch, room enough to seat both of them comfortably._

_He fiddled with his hands as he sat down. “Well as you know, as a former Templar, I've been cut off from the lyrium supply used to help our commitments to guarding the circle. I need help and I was hoping...,”_

_Sister Eileen bit her bottom lip. “Samson, I hate to break it to you like this my friend, but if it’s more lyrium you need I can’t help you with that. Our source is solely for the use of current members of the order.”_

_“That’s it? I'm cut off? Sister, I… I'm not coping.” He wiped his hand across his brow. “Doesn't twenty years count for anything?”_

_Sister Eileen put a hand on his shoulder. “The Chantry… The Chantry of course is supporting. But we can’t give you lyrium.” She said shaking her head._

_His bottom lip quivered. “I don’t think I can take the withdrawal for too much longer.”_

_“Perhaps if you pray to the Maker, he will provide. There’s a small shrine in Lowtown that I hear delivers miracles.” She ran her hand over his shoulder in a comforting manner._

_“I don’t think praying to the Maker will help in this instance, Sister. Miracle or not.” He said as his shoulders slumped._

_She laughed. “You misunderstand me. If you go to the shrine… it’s guaranteed to provide miracles.”_

_He looked into her eyes, for someone well into her 60’s he still thought they shined brighter than any woman much younger. Then he saw the spark. He bowed his head and laughed. “Are you trying…”_

_She interrupted him and put a hand on his cheek. “My poor boy. Of course I am. You are not the first to come to me about this.” Her voice dropped as she looked over to the guard. “Speak with a man named Delwin.”_

_“Thankyou, Sister. Thankyou.”_

_“The Chantry may be severely lacking in its ability to cater to its flock.” She sighed. “I've been around long enough to know that it fails far too many. It doesn't mean that I can’t personally help in some way.” She stroked his cheek again._

_He smiled weakly at her. As he left, he looked up at the chantry doors and shook his head. He didn't think he’d be gracing its doorstep any time soon._

_Back at the boarding house he lay on his bunk. He found his new source of lyrium thanks to Sister Eileen. It felt good, the dwarf dust, even better than he’d felt before when it had been a daily dose. Maybe because he had never been through the torment of withdrawal, he’s not sure. But the relief that it brought was intense. This was a feeling he thought might be hard to beat and it had cost him half the money he had left._

_He fell into a satisfied dreamless sleep._


	4. Greed

Today, he doesn’t make a fuss. He’s too weary to fight, too weary to be demanding or disagreeable. So he remains seated and in chains. His hands lie limply at his side and he spends most of his time staring off into nothing. The emptiness he feels stings, especially as he considers what could have been.

He avoids eye contact with the inquisition soldiers. After last night, he swears they now look at him with pity. At least before there was a hint of fear behind their disgust. Disgust he can deal with, pity though, he wants none of it.

They’ve been travelling for several days now. It seems they’re resigned to give him the blue. All because they fear there will be a repeat of last night’s events. He wonders what Cullen thinks, if it’s a good thing. 

Several times over the day, the slow rhythm of the cart over bumpy ground sends him to sleep. He slumps head forward until a larger thud of cartwheel against rock wakes him.

They are drawing to a stop again, he can see a bridge, and the sound of the river gets louder. 

The healer comes to him and speaks softly. “How are you now?” 

He shakes his head. “I’m as good as can be expected, mage.”

“Uh-huh. Withdrawals?” She asks.

“I’m fine. For the moment.” He replies tersely.

“Call the guard if you get uncomfortable.” She says.

He grunts an acknowledgement before she disappears.

He wonders why they’re bothering. Why not let him die? Then he remembers that this inquisition has likely fought hard for some sort of legitimacy. They need to make an example of him, although what they could or would do… he doesn’t know. They might have just as well left him to his fate last night, for if that is to be his punishment, giving him the blue just delays the inevitable. 

He runs a hand down his face. There’s a light film of sweat building. A soldier indicates he can get down from the cart and go to the river. They even take the chains off, but they still watch him closely.

The water is flowing fast. It wouldn’t take much to fall in. To let the current take him. His armour heavy and dragging him down. It wouldn’t take long. It would be peaceful. Instead, he kneels, removes his gloves and cups his hand to take a draught. His throat is parched and the dryness claws at his lungs too. The water is satisfyingly cold. He splashes his face several times and stands. 

Soldiers are scattered around, eating rations and chatting. His head feels dull and his eyes glazed.  
He’s told he can sit on the bank of the river and he’s handed a plate. Bread and some sort of dried meat. 

One of the guards bites on an apple and he can hear the crunch over the sound of the river and background noise of the soldiers laughing. The meat is dry and tasteless and the bread is stale. He closes his eyes and imagines it’s a tender strip of beef and a soft freshly baked yeast cake. 

The itch under his armour returns and he calls for the mage to give him the blue. He doesn't need the hit just yet, he could stave off for a while, but he’s hungry for more and fuck it, if they’re gonna give it to him he’s gonna be greedy for it.

_”This is too good to be true.”_

_“Believe it Samson. We need to do something about her, things aren't… aren't right.” Thrask licked his lips as he spoke._

_“And why come to me? What the fuck can I do?” He stood hands folded across his chest._

_“You've got the connections we need. And we’ll pay you.” He said._

_Samson laughed. “You think I'm that hard up?”_

_“Maker, look at you. How much do you weigh now? You look like shit. How much bloody lyrium are you ingesting and what is it costing you? So yes, I think you’re hard up.” He said._

_“Now, now, that’s not very nice. Enough that I get by. That’s all you need know.”_

_“You've probably got immunity to the stuff the way you've been quaffing it. Still begging on the streets?”_

_His nostrils flared and a fire rose in his cheeks. He didn't need to be reminded about how far he had fallen. “So what if I fucking am? It brings me some extra coin. Enough to pay for a meal or a bed for the night. Not like the fucking chantry or order cares any more.”_

_“Look, Samson. I'm not going to get on your back about it, but this could be a chance to get rid of the one thing that is destroying the Templars here in Kirkwall. You say you’re still loyal to the order. Let it do one last thing for you.”_

_“And what’s that?”_

_“Give you some dignity back, some faith in the Templar you were.”_

_He rubbed his nose and bowed his head._

_Thrask was right. His use was becoming more and more problematic. Since he started helping mages escape the city his addiction had gotten worse. With no means of tempering it and without the intense physical activity to counteract the lyrium withdrawal effect, he couldn't live without it for a day._

_He justified everything he did as helping those who couldn't help themselves. To make up for every mage that the circle made tranquil a big fuck you to those in the order who had wronged him, the order he once served with thoughtfulness, honour and care._

_If begging on the street and lyrium addition was to be his destiny, who could blame him for being greedy. For needing the dwarf dust so badly. However, at what cost he didn't know, all he knew was that this was his fate and that everything about his life here on the streets of Kirkwall was just getting worse._

 _Two days before meeting with Thrask, he met a young elf woman, a mage looking to escape notice of the circle. She had little money. When she came to him, she was desperate. Her hands fluttered around her as she spoke and she occasionally reached to touch him on the arm or the hand. She offered herself to him in lieu of part payment. It had never been his style to take sexual favours for payment, despite being offered many times. But lately he hadn't cared about his charges, the ones who came looking for help so desperate and needy, shaking or crying with worry. He cared only about the money and how much lyrium it could buy._

_In addition to all of that spending so much time on the streets in the less salubrious parts of the city, he’d grown particularly fond of the pretty elven maidens who came and went from the market each day. It was becoming a highlight of the day to see them bustle and rush from the alienage to the market._

_He relented and said yes._

_It was a warehouse where he took her. The backroom where no one would see. He let her fellate him and he had leaned back and watched her plump mouth kiss, lick and suck him. Before he came, he motioned for her to lift her skirts and he fucked her from behind, hard and without care over a large wooden crate. She had cried out, he wasn't sure, but it sounded like she was in pain. After, he simply gave her the details she needed. She thanked him with a kiss to his cheek. He could see that she had the remnants of tears in her eyes._

_Here he was, deciding on his fate with Thrask his cheek burnt with the memory of the elf mage. Greed made the decision for him. Greed for revenge on part of the order that he felt betrayed him, but most of all, greed for more lyrium_

_“Yes, I’ll help.” He said. He put his cold hand to his face. The relief that it brought made the sting in his cheek all too soon disappear._


	5. Sloth

It’s early evening in camp and he’s lying on a bedroll when the healer comes to him again. He takes the draught and lies back down without saying anything.

A one sided smile graces his face. If he was standing, he’d have a wide stance and his chin would be jutting out smugly. Instead, he is lying on his back, warmth radiating through him, the feeling is rather close to euphoric.

“Fucking peasants.” He spits and laughs. “No fucking idea. No FUCKING IDEA.”

His laughter is enough to attract the guards. A short, stocky man and a tall woman enter. “What the hell is wrong now?” The woman asks.

Samson sits up, the cocky grin he wears remains on his face and one eyebrow is up. “Why nothing, milady.” He does a faux bow from his seated position. 

The guard wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. She mutters a curse before elbowing the other guard who came in with her. “Time to leave, Frederic.”

A different guard enters and he tilts his head at him. “And what might I do for you this fine evening guardsman number 3?”

“Someone would like to speak with you.” He says as he steps aside.

Behind him, a brother of the Chantry. He had noticed him only the day before, the day everything went to shit. 

His face falls. “Party’s not even started and it’s already over. Haven’t you soldier’s needs to attend, Brother?” He says and lies back down on the bedroll, chains clinking.

“Would you like me to stay, Brother Marcus?” The soldier asks.

“No, no, it’s fine. I don’t think I’m any danger.” He says calmly.

“That’s likely correct Brother, but you never know.” He snorts, but doesn’t move from the bedroll.

“Knights Templar Sams…”

“That’s not my fucking name.” He growls.

“What do I call you then?” He asks.

“Oh for the love of the Maker. How about nothing? How about leave me the fuck alone? There is plenty of time for you Chantry fools to try and save my soul when we reach the mighty inquisition base.”

“So you believe in the Maker then?” Brother Marcus says.

He gives a long drawn out sigh and sits upright again. “What do you want Brother… Brother Marcus is it?”

He nods. “It’s a simple question, Samson. If I may call you that?”

He throws his hands in the air and the chains clink loudly around him. “Call me whatever you want.” 

He watches the man pull up a nearby crate and takes a seat near him.

“So do you?” he asks.

“It’s always the same with you Chantry brothers and sisters. Does it matter?” He scowls as he speaks.

“It matters, to the Maker. Blessed are they who stand before, the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter…”

“Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Yes.” He waved his hands erratically. “You don’t think I know this benediction?”

“Then you believe then.” He persists.

He laughed at this. “Knowing the Benediction and carrying out its meaning literally, does not mean belief in the Maker, Brother. It’s merely the actions of a puppet at the will of those who pull the strings.”

“Is that how you see it, Samson?” 

“Of course it’s how I fucking see it. Must I spell it out of you? The Chantry used us. The Chantry still uses the Templars.” His arms swept a path in front of him and the chains jingled louder than before. “What I did was as the Maker intended for the Templars to be, it can’t be anything else other than that. I'm meant to be the vessel, one last chance at glory before we passed into oblivion. That’s what this is.” He felt the vein in his neck stretch as he spoke. “So to answer your fucking question. Of course I believe in the Maker, I never stopped believing in the fucking Maker.” He spits, just missing the brothers shoe. “Why the hell are you here? What do you hope to extract from me? A confession? An acknowledgement of wrongdoing? What then?”

Brother Marcus puts his hands to his lips. “I seek nothing from you, Samson.”

He sat back, his face hot from his outburst and stared. “If not, then why? I'm weary of the riddles and games you Chantry types revel in.”

“I guess all I’m here to say is that only difference between the saint and the sinner is that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.”

He throws his head back and laughs a loud hearty laugh. “Very good, Brother, very good. But I'm going to die before any measure of supposed sin is washed away from my soul.”

“You turned from the, Chantry. We could have helped you.”

His laugh gets louder. “There was a sister that helped me when I turned to Chantry. But it wasn't the Chantry’s doing. It was the individual. The Chantry did nothing for me, they burned away everything I was and when I failed to do exactly as they commanded they threw me away.”

“But I heard they took you back.”

He snorted. “I did it solely for the lyrium. I was that low that’s all that mattered. It was easy to do, easy to come in and be a liar, be the façade of the person I used to be. They didn’t know any better.”

Brother Marcus bites his lip, “Is there anything I can offer you. Any service or prayer that might comfort you?”

He looks at Brother Marcus his stare becomes distant and empty as he shakes his head.

Brother Marcus bows his head and departs without another word.

He lies down and closes his eyes before speaking quietly into the night. “Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls. From these emerald waters doth life begin anew. Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you. In my arms lies Eternity.”

_The chantry doors are still as imposing as he first thought. That hasn't changed. This will be the first time in many years that he’s graced its halls. He’s here today as a Chantry guard. To watch over the petitioners._

_He smiled at that. He thought it terribly ironic._

_Inside the bustle of the outer foyer is awash with people. The petitioner’s benches are full and Gregoir is keeping watch today. “Oh Maker, thank you, you've arrived. This mob is getting mighty unruly.”_

_“That’s a lot of people here. Who’s doing the listening?”_

_“Brother Taris. He’s young and a bit of an arsehole. Fits in well with this job.”  
He nodded and Gregoir departed. _

_He sat for hours. Watched over the dejected and neglected ones waiting for a chance of something. Perhaps a handout for food, or shelter, access to a job even, possibly there were some like him. But he doubted it. Still, they've likely been abandoned by faith yet they still came here. He hadn't forgotten what it was like to be one of them. When his shift is done, he headed to the inner circle of the chantry._

_It’s as if he never left. Nothing has changed. Chantry sisters and brothers come and go. Clerics and grand clerics appear to be busy moving between offices and offering prayers at various places. He wondered if Sister Eileen is still about and he decided to find someone to ask._

_“Excuse me.” He stopped a young sister on the stair, “Do you know of a sister Eileen?”_

_She shook her head no. He asks another, and another, it takes 5 others before a brother squints and rubs his jaw. “Sister Eileen. Older sister is that right?”_

_He nodded._

_“I think she retired to a Chantry in the Hinterlands. You could ask Guardsman Farris, he’s just over there.” He pointed to one of the town’s guardsman a large and ruddy faced man._

_He spoke to the guardsman and found him in foul temper. Yes, he knew Eileen. No, he doesn't know where she went. Yes, possibly Redcliffe._

_He grew impatient and decided not to question him further. He hoped that she’d not come to grief and that she is well._

_The main chapel is largely empty when he entered. It had definitely been a while. When he first was dismissed from the order, he had prayed almost every day to get reinstated. After a while, he gave up. It was obvious the Maker could do nothing to help him. He took his bitterness out on the Chantry, what they stood for, what they appeared to gain from human misery. Those in the order… those in command of the order were no better, but the men, those he worked alongside, those in command like Cullen, were why he was here._

_He bowed his head. That and the Lyrium, he couldn't deny that._

_Early evening prayers were in session. Had he really been almost eight hours watching the wretched petitioners? A prayer? Is that what he came to do? IS that why he didn't return to barracks?_

_He went forward to the statue at the front of the chapel and knelt. He’d be more comfortable saying the prayer in private, but he knelt before Andraste all the same._

_“Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide…” He stopped before he finished and looked up to the statues face._

_“I can’t do this. Not here, not now.” He stood. Rubbed his face and muttered under his breath._

 _Yes, back to the barracks, warm food, a vial of lyrium and his soft bunk._

_He never returned to the inner chapel of Kirkwall’s chantry again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *note thanks to Oscar Wilde for quote 'every saint has a past and every sinner a future'


	6. Lust

He’s losing track of the days. When on the blue it was common for him to do that. In the order, things were pretty much set in stone as how your days ran, out of the order it was nothing short of chaos. When he switched to red, things were different. His new purpose gave him a mandate, organisation of his days was more important. He was a general and it couldn’t be forgotten.

Gone were the days of simple pleasures, of fish pies and a large jug of ale, putting your feet up at the end of the day. Burying your head between the legs of willing woman, whether Templar or whore.

Back on the cart again and he thinks of the indulgences he once had and earlier the ones he never took.

He’s been eyeing one of the soldiers for a few days now. She never looks at him but he knows she’s just his ‘sort’. Shorter than most, a little plump, but not too much. And bosoms that could keep him there for days. Not that he can tell too much from the armour the inquisitions soldiers wear.

She looks like a Free Marcher or possibly Fereldan. Far too fair to be Antivan, and too simple in the way she wears her hair to be Orlesian.

He hasn’t had time for thoughts such as these for quite a while. But here, on this Maker forsaken wooden cart his arms and legs chained, what else is there to do but admire the scenery both flesh and forest alike.

The Templars had twice as many men as women. Liaison of any kind discouraged, but it happened. Difficult when you have men and women together, as much as it was difficult when you had men together.

Templar women were hard. Muscled and built for stamina and purpose. Warriors that were equal to men and for that it made him easy not to get attached, too much like comrades than lovers or partners. The mages under his watch were far more tempting, softer, lovelier. But at that time he was a Templar of good standing, such things were beneath him. Until they booted him. He came back different, less likely to care for rules and regulations. If a mage offered, he no longer refused and there were many times he said yes, with many small favours to be had. Life in the gutter had changed him.

So he continues looking at the soldiers around him. He’s far from being the licentious type anymore, his gut aches too much for that. His lust a mere lingering memory of what he was, what he had. He still looks. The one he has his eye on most is standing nearby.

“Where are you from?” He asks.

She turns and stares at him incredulously, her posture stiffening before a stammering a reply. “I… I’m from Lothering. Originally.”

“And during the blight?” He asks.

“Our family fled to Tantervale, but came back to Haven when the archdemon was slain.” Her eyes are still wide as she answers him.

“So a Marcher by association rather than birth.” He nods his head.

She laughs nervously before answering. “Yes, I guess that’s about right.”

“Tantervale is a good a place as any to be in the Free Marches. Haven not so much.”

Her eyes dart nervously around and she steps away quickly.

He gives a small chortle. “Still have the charm.” He mutters under his breath.

_“If you haven’t the coin you need to leave.” The bouncer said._

_Cocky and abrasive and looking not so much like a beggar now he answers with a shake of his head._

_“I have coin. Plenty in fact. I’ve come to celebrate.”_

_The bouncer eyed him suspiciously. “First sign of trouble or you’re out. The Rose doesn’t need arseholes for clients.”_

_He tilted his head and laughed. “Really now. That’s no way to speak to a paying customer. After I’d spent a great deal of time cleaning myself up so I could come here.” He brushed his clothing down as he spoke._

_The Templars had taken him back and it felt good to gloat about his reinstatement. To think that they had wanted him back and that they wanted him to fight alongside them again had been the boost his sorry state had needed. He’d been in the worst possible way since Meredith had removed him. He was still resentful of that but with money being hard to come by and all these bloody refugees from the blight flooding into the city he could barely eek enough money out of the system to feed both himself and his lyrium addiction._

_“You’re still a bum Samson.” He replied._

_“But one with coin.” He raised his eyebrows as he spoke and threw him a silver. The bouncer replied with a grimace and let him through the door._

_Samson breathed it in. The smell of the ale and cigars. Of cheap perfume and cologne. The distinctive odour of sex oozing from the walls. Maker, he’d only been here a few times, and never whilst in the order. He’d been disciplined and restrained in his predilections, taking sexual comfort with only his peers and rarely at that even. After though, had been a different story. The hold over his base needs and wants was now gone, his thirst for the dwarf dust sent him into a spiral of bad company and vices._

_When his money dried up and thirst for lyrium took precedence for his coin he tried on the docks where the cheaper prostitutes flaunted their wares, until he could no longer even afford them. He’d been back in the job for over a month and now his need for the dwarf dust had been quenched there were other distractions to lead him astray. He wasn’t ready to shed all his corruptions just yet._

_Today he had come to bury himself in some little elf. A thing he recognised as a craving of sorts. He’d being eyeing the elves in the circle, his attentions tempered only by close watch of others. They were still a tad thin for his tastes. He’d have liked nothing better than to have given them a hearty home cooked meal. Then fuck them. Right now though, he’d have to settle for just fucking them. He could buy them dinner at some other time._

_“Just point me to Madam Lusine.” He asked at the bar and in response was politely taken upstairs._

_He knew the drill. Preferences asked, mates chosen, this time only one elf amongst them and Maker, she’s tall and thin, skeletal almost, not his type at all._

_“This is Elane.” Madam Lusine said._

_He smiled and took her hand. This desire for something he rarely wanted before was ever so sweet._


	7. Pride

When the cart rolls into the mountain pass he knows it won’t be long till he’s at Skyhold. There’s a bite in the air that only the Frostbacks can give. In truth, it relieves the constant itch he’s had since his first night of withdrawals. 

Driving further into the mountains he sees the increase in the number of tents. The encampments are huge but currently half-empty. Soldiers are still marching from the Arbor Wilds, or making settlements safe for from his Templars. He bows his head and rubs his face.

“Are we there yet?” He says with a sneer to the latest guard, a short stout fellow with ruddy cheeks. The pretty one seems to have rostered off for the moment.

“Aaaah we will likely be there come nightfall.” He replies timidly.

He looks the guard over and decides he doesn’t want to know about him, or talk to him. He looks soft, not like a soldier, more a boy fresh from the farm. He’s likely seen not more than eighteen summers and he’s sure the conversation would be dull so he doesn’t engage him further. The lad looks like he might run off with fright if he tries to converse any more.

There appears to be civilians here too, more than he expected. Sorry bastards’ probably don’t know what hit them, much like the stout guard. After mixing with them for a long time in Kirkwall he learnt that they either lived in fear or oblivious to the real dangers, there was no in-between. He guesses they must seem some sort of safety in aligning themselves with the Inquisition. If the Inquisition had been around when he needed it, who knows, he might have felt the same.

But it never happened like that. He was afforded no opportunity that these civilians have. No mercy, or protection or even possibly a chance at redemption. He did however understand what the dangers were, where the real fear lay. He also knew where malice lay, where resentment and anger lay, it was within him and directed at those in command. Those that should have treated his Templars better, those that should have treated _him_ better. 

Now his Templars are dead. If not dead then leaderless, and for that he grieves. Offered a sword a way to die with some semblance of dignity, after all that had gone before, of course he’d fucking take it. Fuck the Chantry and their guilt making. Fuck the Chantry and their hold over them through Lyrium. At least with the red it was easy to access. His Templars were released from shame and disillusionment. They were fearless, vengeful yet with purpose and direction like he’s sure they never had before. Was the price too high? He’s never been convinced that it was. Better to die with a sword in hand than with the gnawing of your gut and clawing pain that sees you dead in a ditch.

His soldiers. He rubs his face again at thought of them. Maker be damned. He’s tried not to think about it, but he knows it will keep haunting him. That and Maddox. He’d tried his best and now the poor sod was dead. All over a fucking letter. Who would have thought loving words, an expression of emotion and care could lead to all of this. He pounds his fist into his armoured leg and his gaze becomes steely.

He stands on the cart. The remaining troops that are here stare at him wide eyed. He stares each one of them down, until they look away in fear, disgust or loathing. In spite of his doubt, his defeat at the hands of a small elf, the fact that he’s now wrapped up in chains and in spite of the looks he receives he still has a measure of pride. There is no going back, standing up for what he thought right is all that he can do now.

_The city is on fire and the mages were attacking everything on sight. His thoughts drifted to Meredith._

_“She can’t have been right. She just fucking can’t be. By my oath, by my pride, it can’t be.” He said as he swung his sword high and twirled it around fast knocking the abomination to the ground._

_He plunged his sword deep into the fire bound creature and the sound that it made was blood curdling._

_Cullen was by his side and wiping blood from his face. Several more strokes from both he and Cullen saw it finally felled. “What are you talking about, Samson?” He asked as yet another abomination was relegated to dust._

_“These mages. They’re… turning left right and centre. What has Meredith done?” Samson said, his voice ragged with exertion._

_“I don’t know what’s happened suffice to say both she and Orsino are not of right mind. There is anarchy afoot, an apostate is to blame for Chantry destruction and now all hell is breaking loose.” Cullen retorted._

_“What of the Champion, where is she?” He asked._

_“She’s taken the side of the mages and fights with them. She says she won’t fight any that oppose Meredith, but if any Templar, whatever allegiance, attacks her or her party she says she will strike them down. Best keep out of her way.”_

_“What of the tranquil?” Samson’s voice remained calm despite another wave of Mages they could see approach from a distance._

_“They’re doomed. If they’re not dead already they soon will be.” Cullen answered._

_“I’m going to find them. This can’t happen again.” He shook his head as he spoke._

_“Our brothers and sisters are there, they’ll do what they can.” Cullen laid a hand on Samson’s arm. “You should stay here.”_

_He shook his head. “No. If those Templars are loyal to Meredith, then the tranquil are not safe.”_

_Cullen sighed before answering. “Go. If they’re alive get them down to the docks. If they’re dead, we’ll need you back here.”_

_He nodded and headed straight for the Gallows, careful to avoid a fight where he could. He didn’t want to be outnumbered before he got there. It was hard to be stealthy in all his Templar armour and he was sure that he wouldn’t be able to face down a demon on his own, but managed to make it safely to the main Templar office. There were a few dead around, what looked to be both turned and unturned Mages._

_He moved quickly from office to office looking at all the dead to check who they were. There was the tranquil Gerhard, a sword poking out of his gut. The tranquil Erin, sliced through her neck. He kept looking wary not to draw his attention to anyone either Mage or Templar who might still be roaming. The final room was locked down tight. He butted it several times, the creak and the groan of the wood splintering but not enough to break it._

_“Damn it man. One more.” He cursed as his armour butted against the door a final time before the lock gave way. Relief washed across his face as his eyes fell upon Maddox. “Thank the Maker. You’re alive.”_

_The Mage tilted his head to one side. “Of course, what else would I be?”_

_He rubbed his face and snorted a laugh. “We need to get out of here, Maddox. Get you down to the docks.” He grabbed the Mage by the arm and manoeuvred him roughly towards the outer door, but Maddox hesitated._

_“There is another way.” The Mage said._

_His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”_

_“There’s another way to the docks from here.”_

_“There is? Where is it then?”_

_Maddox pointed to the stairwell. “Down in the basement there is a tunnel to the docks. Only Knight Commander Meredith, First Enchanter Orsino and we tranquil know about it.”_

_“Well that’s damn convenient.” He smiled at the Mage but received nothing in reply. “Come on then, let’s get you to a ship.”_

_When they arrived there was a number of junior Templars waiting on the docks. “That Mage, he needs putting to the sword.” One of them said._

_He shook his head. “By order of… the Knight Captain, we are not to harm this tranquil. He’s here to help us.”_

_They looked to each other but then reluctantly shielded their swords._

_“It’s crazy out there.” One of them said. “What are we to do?”_

_“Is this ship ours?” He asked._

_Another junior nodded. “And there is a second one to come.”_

_“This one is stocked full of lyrium we’re just waiting on Knight-Captains orders. Most of us have regrouped here._

_He mulled for a moment and chewed on his lip before addressing them again. “We need to go, and we need to go now.”_

_“What abo…”_

_“I am the senior here. Do you follow me? Do you give me your sword to fight for honour?” He kept his voice low and stern._

_They all nodded yes. “Then we need to leave now, take what we have and gather somewhere out of the city limits later.”_

_As the ship set sail, he leaned against the side of the boat and looked on to the city. There were plumes of smoke rising up above the city walls._

_Maddox stood beside him. “Will they be safe, Samson?”_

_He shrugged his shoulders and threw him a doubtful look. “I don’t know, Maddox. I truly don’t know.”_

_He observed the junior Templars in his charge. Fresh faced, earnest, willing to serve. His chest puffed up at the thought of commanding them. If he couldn’t do right by himself, Maker, he’d at least do right by them._


	8. Wrath

When the cart finally rolls through Skyhold’s gate a small contingent is there to greet him. Cullen is one of them.

He stands and jumps from the cart, surprising the soldiers around him. He raises his eyebrows a surly grin gracing his face.

He looks around and again is surprised at the number of civilians that seems to be here. He’s led to the base of the stairs where Cullen is standing behind a table, his arms crossed and he wears a scowl.

”Samson, welcome to Skyhold.” There’s steel in Cullen’s voice that he never remembers from their time together in Kirkwall.

“Commander Cullen Rutherford.” He sneers and sniffs loudly. “Is your little inquisitor not here to greet me?”

Cullen’s own sneer turns into a smirk “The inquisitor has other matters to attend to. But you’ve met her already.”

The manner of Cullen’s delivery throws his cockiness off balance but he answers as blasé as he can. “By the Maker I have. A mere lamb by her look. But I guess I was wrong about that. What talisman has been given to her that they all follow her like sheep?” He threw his arms around gesturing to all the soldiers and civilians mulling around.

“You’ve seen the mark. If you’re asking when a lamb became a lion, you’ll see soon enough.” Cullen nods to the soldiers to remove him.

“A judgement long time coming. Isn’t that right _Commander_?” He replies as the soldiers stand ready at his side. 

He hears Cullen snort angrily behind him as he’s led away to the holding cells.

He’s not there long before he’s dragged up to Skyhold’s great hall.

He stares blankly in front him but there she is the little elf with fire in her eyes that matched both him and his armour. She looks so small against the Andrastian throne but at the same time, she melds into its frame. If his vision were even more blurred than it was currently, he might have believed her a dragon.

Cullen is the one to introduce him for judgement. The man who had been a comrade, now one who stands against him a foe. The Lion of Skyhold himself. ”The inquisition stock of lyrium must be generous for former Templars.

His hearing is selective during judgment and there are words and phrases that burn more than others ‘traitor to the order’ being one. It mattered not what they say, he is already lost to corruption. They think they’ll have vengeance but they are mistaken. The master was the only one, _is_ the only one, who could have stopped it. All of them were abandoned by the Chantry in the name of the Maker. A false house of worship corrupted by their own power. He failed to see how they differed from Corypheus.

The elf, she fails to understand, she thinks that he offers defence when there is none. He knows that. It’s only mercy he tendered and even that was robbed of them. The inquisition sees itself a saviour, he doubts that they are, his soldiers are gone, he’s angry and done talking to this lot. 

She sentences him as a test subject. His resistance to Red Lyrium of interest. So be it. He hopes that the corruption takes him sooner rather than later. Best die as a Martyr than as a fool. 

_The first draught was the worst. It burnt like fire in his gut. The second and third weren’t much better but he began to feel the strength in it. His muscles stretched and became taut underneath the tunic he had worn, the veins popped on his neck after every vial passed his lips. Maddox expressed doubt about what they were doing was safe._

_“Samson, are you under any stress?” He had asked on numerous occasions. His face never furrowed with concern, it reflected his tranquillity and felt at odds with his current role as healer. “You look like you are hurting.”_

_He shook his head . “No, my friend. I feel…” he licked and bit his lips before continuing. “I feel different but stronger.” He had lied, partly to not worry Maddox, an old habit perhaps, but one he could not relinquish even if the man no longer had the ability to relate to his emotions._

_If he was to be a slave, if he was to bend to the will of this ancient magister the payoff would have to be grand, and that’s exactly how he saw it. Red lyrium surged through his veins and he’d never felt more powerful. However, he knew there would be a greater test to come, he was confident he would succeed and his beloved new Templars would be by his side._

_Corypheus had instructed Maddox on how to build the armour from the red lyrium. It would take time and there would be some arcanist skills needed and Maddox had nodded at every point he had been instructed on. In the meantime, the Templars took the lyrium and trained under the watchful eyes of him and the Master. Some appeared to turn quicker than others. Their transformation to something akin to abominations he had not quite expected. They followed orders. They were strong and never wavered in battle. He would not waiver either._

_Corypheus had been elsewhere when Maddox had completed his duties so he came to Samson._

_“It’s finished, General.” He said. “Shall we wait till he returns before we begin the ceremony?” He asked._

_“Yes. The Master wants to be here. He is with his Venatori allies at the moment.”_

_Maddox nodded and made a vague reply about heading back to the alchemy lab._

_When Corypheus returned he was pleased with what he saw. As pleased as an ancient Magister could ever be. “It’s wise you had waited, General. For you may not have survived it without me.” He said._

_“I have made my commitment to you, Master.” He replied. “And if it kills me then it is as the… it is as it’s meant to be.” He held back on referring to the Maker, he hadn’t yet shaken his faith completely. He wasn’t sure he could. But he had faith in Corypheus. Anything he had asked for had been given. He may be enslaved but this Magister was true to his word, more than any Chantry mother or sister._

_He had increased his intake of Red Lyrium over the days and nights. The binding to the red crystal was nothing like it was with the blue. With it came a greater sense of purpose than he had never had previously. He was focused, alert and determined. This armour he was to don, he would be ready for what it provided to him. If it destroyed him, the Maker would understand that he served another for a more than just selfish gain._

_Finally, Maddox came with the armour, several Templar soldiers helped the tranquil carry what must be a dozen pieces._

_“Samson,” Corypheus said. “Are you ready to be my vessel?”_

_Samson nodded._

_Maddox began the process of dressing him. First the legs, boots then chausses of mail and reinforcing greaves. A mail shirt next with the cuirass and the giant lyrium spike to follow. He gulped loudly as they put it on attaching the piece firmly with leather belts, then the faulds at his waist, more belts and back armour followed. Brassart, pauldrons and the gauntlets came last._

_When the final piece was laid Samson felt the tremble in his legs heighten. The glare from the lyrium spikes hurt his eye and despite being used to the weight of full armour, he was unsure as to why his body shivered and quaked. It wasn’t any heavier than anything he had worn before._

_A heat began to gather in his chest and his breaths become rapid as the burning sensation that started at his core spread across his shoulders and down to the tips of his fingers._

_Sweat beaded on his forehead as he looked to Corypheus. His Master looked on coldly as Samson’s lips began to tremble. “Master?” He said plaintively. The pain on his face began to manifest in twisted features, and he sputtered as he spoke. “Master, I think… I think I’m on fire.” He turned to Maddox and mouthed help._

_Maddox reached out to steady him. “Samson, are you…”_

_Before comfort could be offered, Samson collapsed in Maddox’s arms and began to howl and writhe in pain. Corypheus came to his side and brushed Maddox away. “There is nothing you can do now tranquil. He will perish unless I help.” He said as he laid a hand on Samson’s head. Samson stopped writhing and stilled. Corypheus hand remained on him for only a few minutes._

_“Help him up.” Corypheus said to Maddox._

_Samson stood, a little unsteady, but whatever the armour had done to him was calmed by the hand of the Magister._

_Corypheus began to laugh before turning to pick something up. He walked to the man who previously had been in pain thrashing on the ground._

_“Your sword, General.” Corypheus held aloft a great sword._

_Samson, still weakened from donning the armour took the sword from the magister and gripped it tightly. “This is… this is my sword?” He asked. His eyes widened and he smiled as he turned the sword over in his hand, feeling the weight as his eyes slid from the handle up to the blade’s tip._

_“When you are ready, planning for Haven and the Inquisition awaits. You are to be my vessel. Wield it in the name of the Elder One.”_

_Samson forgot the pain in his chest, the remnants of burning in his arms and legs, he forgot the humiliation at the hands of this swords former owner. His slide into obscurity in the sewers of Kirkwall was now a distant memory now that Corypheus had given him back his sword._

_He’d show the Chantry and Andraste's Herald what it meant to wield Certainty._


	9. Burned into mind, memory and heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a look a little longer than expected, I guess it being the penultimate one I had a lot of stuff I thought should be said that wasn't said earlier in the fiction. I've tried to keep Samson and Cullen's dialogue as close to canon as possible so thanks to Evil Sapphyre for feedback, especially on Cullen's voice in this chapter. I'd also like to acknowledge solas-you-nerd (on tumblr) for allowing me to use her head canon for a Samson having a Templar tattoo.

If regret were a sin, he’s sure he’ll need more than the Makers forgiveness. If his memory is correct, it’s a long list of crime and misdeeds committed.

Everything he’d done to end up in this cell, in this place, a cock up from start to finish. His life and all those around him, he cared about destroyed through his actions. His failing in Kirkwall and defeat under the hubris of good intentions was all thanks to an allegiance with the ancient Magister. It leaves him bereft.

He wonders why she spares his life, the little elf with fire in her belly. The more he thinks about it the more he’s sure she’s a dragon. Why also, the Commander, once his friend and companion, did not want him to suffer more, he’s not sure either. He waits for Cullen to come to him, he knows the man well enough to know that he will, and there will be words between them. Cullen will want to know, he _needs to know_. Did they think death too decent for him? 

Maker, the red. It’s burned into his body now. The corruption was slowed but he feels like it lies just under the surface. It hurts not having it. There’s the blue, which calms him, but there’s an edge, one that the blue cannot satisfy. Blighted lyrium grows. It doesn’t dissipate like the ordinary stuff. His paranoia is gone, and he can think more clearly, but then there’s that vein on his leg that has begun to swell. It itches and burns and he knows it’s just the start. He’s seen the effects of corruption, on his troops, obedient men and women all of them. Some succumb slowly, others so fast it alarms him -- at first. His own delay still a mystery, except he knows it’s Corypheus’ doing. 

When he’s in his cell for the first night, stripped of his armour and with cuffs of steel on his legs and wrists, he sleeps fitfully.

The second night is no better. During the day he’s led to the Undercroft. He meets Dagna, the arcanist and the one who crafted the rune that broke his armour. She tells him Maddox left enough remnants of information to help her. She seems clever enough, although he knows none that ever surpassed Maddox in arcane abilities. He’s not sure what to make of her, except to think she talks too much.

Tonight, after today’s session with Dagna, Maddox is on his mind and it keeps him awake. He sits up and rolls a twig in his hand, one found in the courtyard earlier. He traces the path of the crumbling mortar of his cells stonewalls, methodically and meditatively. Memories of the Chant of Light come to him, but he’s not ready for prayers.

The dim light that illuminates his cell suddenly brightens and he turns to see who it is.

There’s a laugh as he puts up his arm to shield him from the brightness that shines in his face.

“You’ll need more than a twig to dig yourself out,” a voice says.

“Out. Now.” A different voice says, one he recognises as Cullen’s.

“I wondered when you might pay me a visit, Commander,” he says, “But I told you. I’m done talking.” He turns back to tracing the outline of the stones.

“I need to know,” Cullen says, “I need to know when it began. I need to--"

“Guilty conscience, Commander?” He snorts.

“Hardly,” Cullen replies.

“The respectable lady Inquisitor has yet to grace me with her presence. But I guess she hasn’t a need given her worthy and strong Commander prefers to handle my reins.” 

“Just tell me –“ Cullen steps closer to the cell, hesitates, turns around to leave, before turning back to face him. 

“I want to know when this all began. In Kirkwall?”

There’s a pause and Samson drops the twig on the floor and rubs his face with his hand. “Yes,” he says, “It began in Kirkwall.”

“Before --”

“No, after you left,” he replies wearily.

There’s a sudden rise in Cullen’s voice, “How? You were a worthy man Samson. A decent Templar. Even when you came back to the order. You were there to pick up the pieces and that’s how you did it? The Templars are broken after what you’ve done. How could you in good faith, feed them that poison after watching Meredith fall?”

Samson laughs. “I wasn’t a worthy man at that stage, or a decent Templar. I ceased being that the moment Meredith removed me from my duties. By the time I returned, the order was not what it was. And that, Commander Cullen, was none of my doing.”

Cullen begins to pace, before pointing angrily at him through the bars of his cell. “Our Templars deserved more than that. You were always weak.” 

“If weakness is compassion, if weakness is passing a letter between those who love one another, if weakness is treating those poor sods with magic as human beings, and If weakness is seeing ‘our Templars’ not fall to the desperation of withdrawal, then yes, I am weak.” A deep snarl crosses Samson’s face and he points angrily to his chest. “I own all of it. You,” he points to Cullen. “You don’t understand. None of you will ever understand. I told you that before.” He sits on his bunk, hands clench into fists before he presses them to his forehead.

Cullen shakes his head, “I should never have left Kirkwall.”

He turns his face to Cullen’s “You reason none of this would have happened under your watchful eye? I saw you Cullen. I saw you turn away from us. You couldn’t leave fast enough.”

Cullen came close to the bars his face red in the glow of the light. “I would never have--”

“You say that. You say it like you tried, but you didn’t. After what happened, I left, with those recruits. But I bought them back. I saw their faces, I saw them and what they needed. You-- you left, Cullen. You left. You and I--you fucking left.” his voice trails off and he places his head back in his hands.

“I left for avirtuous reason. You know that. The Chantry -- would have helped,” Cullen says as he shifts from foot to foot.

Samson shakes his head before spitting on the floor, “You have no idea. How the fuck could the Chantry help? They couldn’t help before, why after? They were a fucking mess. Your devotion smacks of delusion.” He stands up from the bunk and faces him. “The Chantry doesn’t give a fuck about anyone but the Chantry. We were tools, to be used and thrown away. My faith is no longer tied to the Dogma of the Divine and the fools who preach the Chant of light. For that I remain grateful to Corypheus.”

At the mention of Corypheus name Cullen grabs Samson’s neck with both hands through the bars and squeezes. “You consider yourself a saviour in a new world order? You’re a fool Raleigh Samson, and now you’re a murderer. Why do you suppose I stand here? To stop men like you. To give some semblance of stability to the few blameless Templar who remain, with no thanks to you. To stop Corypheus I’ll do whatever it takes.” 

Cullen squeezes harder and Samson falls to his knees as Cullen finally releases his grip on his neck.

“You should have kept squeezing,” he gasps and paws at his throat.

Cullen shakes his head, “I’m not about to make you a martyr.”

“Too late for that,” he says and laughs.

“We were more than friends once. But now look at you, why the Inquisitor allows you to still breathe after what you’ve done --” Cullen says with a sneer and turns to leave.

“You’d have done anything for the Templars and you’d have done anything for lyrium. You’d still do anything for lyrium. The Inquisitions supply must be limitless to keep you here.” Samson rasps. 

Cullen stops in his tracks and turns his head sideways. “You’re right about the Templars, but wrong about lyrium. I’m no longer bound.” He leaves without further word. 

The light dims. He reaches forward from his position still on the floor to grab the dropped twig, then sits with his back to the wall. It’s cold against his spine, a relief to the burn he feels in his gut and relief to the thoughts that now scorch his mind. So, Cullen is truly free. He bites his lip, traces the mortar between the stones on the floor and utters a small prayer to the Maker.

_It was dusk in Lowtown, and dust that had blown in from Maker knows where, gave the light a hazy glow. It was beautiful. However, in this part of Kirkwall, beggars, thieves, prostitutes and others too poor to live anywhere else but too proud to do anything other than hard labour lived here, and it was rarely beautiful._

_Samson had done begging for the day. A number of silvers the day’s taking and to add to that, a generous amount of coppers. Enough for a bed for a few nights and a meal or two. His clothes were starting to look like sacks given the amount of weight and muscle he’d lost in the short time he’d been out on his own, so he’d made a pack with himself to eat at least once a day. Anything else, like clothes, a haircut or an evening in the services of one of Kirkwall’s finest streetwalkers was beyond him now. The rest of his coin would be for the dust, as much as he could afford._

_He went quickly down to the docks. Did his business and retreated to the palace that would be his bed for the night._

_A small bar and alehouse served as a kitchen and reception area at the front of the flophouse. He threw the keep coin._

_“3 nights I think that will buy me. And maybe three evening meals as well?” He said._

_The keep looked over the coin suspiciously before nodding to him “Aye. You’ll have to share the room though. Stews in the corner.”_

_He looked at the mess in the cook pot but grabbed a large ladle full for his bowl and bread and sat down in a corner to eat. It was lukewarm, and the bread, stale, but he didn’t care, he’d feel empty until he had his dust._

_When he was done, he headed straight to the room where he’d be spending his next few nights. Inside was a younger man. He looked fit, healthy and happy. Odd, given the usual types you got in here._

_“Evening,” the younger man said._

_Samson nodded before sitting on the edge of his bunk. He rummaged around in his sack and found one of the four vials he’d bought earlier, and gulped it down greedily._

_He sighed and placed his fists at his temples. The blue, it worked fast. The emptiness in the pit of his stomach began to dissipate. “Where are you from?” He asked. A sudden urge to chat overwhelmed him._

_“Denerim, initially. I came here due to the blight. For work that is. I was told Kirkwall--"_

_Samson grunted. “No work here,” he looked over the man’s physique. “You could try mercenary or body guard work, “You look like you have an arm for it.”_

_“I was hoping that might be a decent bet. I don’t know how to do much else. Not in the city anyway.”_

_Samson looked over the lad’s hands. They were calloused and stained. “Farmer?” He asked.  
The younger man nodded. “Not much call for a farmer in the middle of a city though. But I can fight. I’d fought my fair share of darkspawn and never got sick.” _

_There was a hint of sadness in the younger man’s eyes but Samson didn’t press him for more information._

_Samson took his shirt off and went to lie down. He was thick with the dust that he had bought earlier and as well as making him social, lately, it made him sleepy._

_Before he could lie down the young man spoke again, “You’re a Templar?”_

_“What?”_

_“A Templar. The tattoo on your shoulder, it’s their crest.”_

_Samson had forgotten. He’d gotten it before Meredith was Knight-Commander, before he hated the order, hated the Chantry, hated…_

_“Were you a Templar?” The younger man asked again a hint of excitement in his voice._

_“Yes,” he said curtly. Samson’s sudden lyrium induced agreeable mood dissipated as quickly as it came._

_He remembered the night well, the look on the other Templars faces, he included, when one of them made the suggestion. He remembered the amount of ale he imbibed in order not to feel the point of the needle digging into him. He remembered the woman’s thighs who bought him more ale, but not her face. He remembered the sweaty scent of the tattooist whose arms were so ripping with muscle they looked like the leg of a horse. He remembered how good he felt to be amongst others who were his comrades and friends._

_Now his feelings were like a bitter brew, but without the numbing effect of alcohol. He wanted rid of this--thing, even if he couldn’t see the bastard._

_“Why did you leave?” he asked._

_Samson paused before answering. “Philosophical differences,” he said. The younger man took it as a sign to ask no more and lay down on his own bunk._

_Samson opened his coin purse before retiring. There was still silver and coppers there. Not enough for any more dust, but enough that could take him to a woman he knew who was skilled with a knife as well as on her back. He’d a mind to cut that fucking tattoo out._

_The following day down to the docks, the usual morning bustle of people went about their business. He weaved his way through the labourers, crew hands and dockworkers. The ale and lodging houses were open. It was cheap to stay in these places, cheaper than the flophouse in Lowtown where he usually resided, but even he had standards. This place, teeming with vermin and lowlifes of the human variety he’s keen to avoid, _most of the time,_. He found the place he needed, a brothel at the end of pier six. Inside a half asleep bar keep and a pretty elf serving boy. He asked for Letitia._

_“I heard my name.” A woman came out of a back door. She was tall and busty, with ruddy cheeks and greying blonde hair. “Samson. I never thought I’d see you here again. Do you have coin? Lady or gent?”_

_He shook his head. “I’m not here for that, Letitia. I want you to remove a tattoo.”_

_“Remove a tattoo?” she said and tilted her head to the side._

_“Something that has been a burden for far too long,” he replied._

_“Such a fancy way of talking. ‘A burden for far too long’ Oh Ser Samson,” she snorted. “You sure  
you don’t want more?” She bit her lip and bowed her head coquettishly._

_Samson guffawed. “No. Just the tattoo removal.”_

_She beckoned him to follow her. They entered a long, narrow passage way and passed a woman crying and a barking dog that Letitia shouted at to be quiet, before leading him into a room with a fire burning. Hazy light filtered in through the rotten material of the curtains._

_“Burned or tapped?” she asked._

_“What?” he said._

_“Tapping, you know, that’s how you got it in the first place?” she said._

_“I don’t remember that exactly. I wasn’t exactly sober at the time,” he replied._

_She sighed, “we take this—“she held up a minute wooden instrument with sharp metal needles protruding from the end, just like a tiny brush. “We then tap the shape and add ink as we go.”_

_“And to remove it?” He winced at the thought._

_“We do the same, we tap deeper and scar you.”_

_Samson grimaced. “Is that the only way?”_

_“There’s cutting and cauterising.”_

_Samson shuddered, and shook his head. There wasn’t enough dwarf dust in his system to think that he could tolerate either._

_“What’s quicker?” he asked, not wanting to endure the pain for longer than needed._

_“Cauterising probably.”_

_“Probably?”_

_She shrugged. “Your decision.”_

_“Cauterise it then,” he said, waving his hand in the air dismissively._

_“Where is the tattoo?”_

_“My shoulder,” he replied._

_She nodded and bade him undress. A lewd smile grew across her lips as he removed his waistcoat and shirt. “Turn around and sit on this chair.”_

_He followed her instruction. He felt the cold compress of alcohol against his skin, surprising that she would bother, but comforting to know there was at least a level of cleanliness involved. He could hear her pottering around behind him before he was passed a glass with a clear liquid._

_“Drink that.” She passed him rolled up rag. “Then put this in your mouth. I don’t want my customers spooked by your yelling.”_

_He gave her a wide-eyed look and her response was to laugh._

_“You’ll be fine,” she said with a grin. “It will only hurt a little bit.” She let out a cackle._

_He took the glass from her hand and drank the draught in one. It hit the back of his throat and burned as it went down. He placed the rag between his teeth and leaned forward on the chair. The first thing he felt was a prickle of heat and the smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils. Combined with the roll of material in his mouth, he gagged in response. He reached into his pocket and fingered the half-filled vial of lyrium he’d placed there earlier, squeezed his eyes shut and bit down harder until his jaw ached._

_She was right at least, it didn’t take long. He felt a balm that appeared to cool the wound and a plaster went over the top._

_Letitia patted his lower back damp from sweat, “All done sweetie, clean dressing is on the house,” she said._

_He removed the material from his mouth and stretched. “Well, that was quick.”_

_“I can’t spend all day doing this. I’ve got other things to do.” She began to laugh, “At least I can lay down for a bit,” she snorted and slapped her thigh comically._

_Samson smiled, but he wasn’t in the mood for mirth. He thanked her with formality that again had her cooing ‘Ser Samson’ as he dressed._

_“Are you sure--“_

_“Quite sure."_

_“Suit yourself, luv,” she replied._

_On the way out the pretty elf boy passed him a moist towel. He used it to wipe the sweat from his brow and over his face. It was likely the cleanest he’d be for a while. He passed the boy some coppers and left._

_He stopped just outside to rub his shoulder, the alcohol’s effect on the skin had worn off and the alcohol imbibed did squat. He’d need that vial sooner rather than later._

_The docks had cleared of their morning bustle and several ships had left in the short time he’d been indoors. As he headed back towards Lowtown, he noticed an old man staring at him from one of the warehouse doors. He looked like a beggar, but Samson knew all of them. This man, he’d never seen before. He wasn’t dressed well enough to be a worker and too ancient for a prostitute. His outfit of blue and silver reminded him of the Wardens, but without a crest, this must have been a throwaway garment from a warden. To add to that, this little stooped individual, so wrinkled and aged couldn’t possibly be a warden. The man stared at him with dead eyes and elicited a contorted smile. He recoiled and kept moving._

_He had begging to do and a vial of lyrium to do reverence. He felt sure it hummed to him._


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Swindlefingers for looking over this for me!

It’s always cold in the war room. There’s a draught where no one can ever find the source, despite the best efforts of engineers and soldiers of the Inquisition forces. Inquisitor Lavellan rubs her arms, keen for a room with a warm blazing fire and without a current of cold air.

“Inquisitor, may I have a word?” Cullen asks, as polite as always.

Leliana, Josephine and Morrigan exit, leaving the two of them standing either side of the table.

“Of course, Cullen. What is it?” She blows into the palms of her hands, a hint that she’d like to leave as soon as possible.

Cullen hands her some papers over the table. “We found these in Samson’s cell. They’re letters.”

“Letters? To who?” she says.

Cullen clears his throat. “Well, one is for you. The others, I haven’t a clue. I just wanted to know what we should do with them.” 

She takes them from him and opens the first. The writing is messy, but legible, the paper thin and tattered but the dark ink appears barely dry.

_I am not without fear, of you and for what you stand. When I observe you, I’m struck, not by the mark, not by the power you wield, but the look in your eyes. It’s like staring at a dragon, steely, unmoving. It speaks of how unbreakable you are. In them, I see the reflection of my failure and the devastation of my Templars. Who is the monster?_

_My face is sallow, tinged with a sickness that you only see in those with a wasting disease. But I am not wasting, far from it. The red ~~gives~~ gave me a power I have never felt before. I was a child when I was given to the Templars and the blue made me stronger and my faith kept me honest -- it still keeps me honest. I fought for my Templars, and the Maker himself would not deny that my intentions were as honest as yours and your Inquisition’s. I had a simple plan, a noble death for the men and women under my command._

_You took that away._

_If it weren’t for these chains, these bars, your minders, your soldiers and Rutherford, I would steal myself over the edge of the broken floor in the dungeon. If you were close by, I would grab, hold you tight and take you with me._

Her thumb runs over her lip as the letter falls from her hand. She flicks her eyes to Cullen’s briefly before unfolding the next letter.

_The name to whom the letter is addressed is scratched out._

_I know it’s been less than three weeks since we saw each other, I just wanted to let you know that I’m -- less than fine. But despite everything, I’m still here. I don’t know what to say about our defeat, except that this Inquisition has me questioning myself, more than I ever have before. I’ve failed the Master, I’ve failed all of you, and for that, I’m sorry._

The letter breaks off here, but then starts again, still with an untidy hand.

_They have this dwarf here. She came from Orzammar and went to the Circle of Magi to study magic and the arcane. Can you believe it? A dwarf? Seems this one’s always liked magic as she talks about it all the time. She never shuts up, in fact. It drove me nuts initially, but now I find it -- comforting? A strange term for some strange circumstances. I can’t -- express what I feel, I can’t articulate? I don’t know what the fucking word is, you were always better at this than I was._

_Maker, I’d give my right arm for the red right now. They’re giving me the blue, but it’s not the same. I can feel myself growing weaker with each vial, like it's sucking my strength rather than giving it back to me. If I weren’t a prisoner, I’d be back begging on the fucking streets somewhere, or killing, for more red._

_She broke my armour you know. The dwarf. After we left the Temple and Maddox stayed on -- before they came, he tried to destroy it all but there were remnants of his handiwork left after -- he died. There was enough for her to craft a rune and break the unbreakable. He died for nothing. The crows of the Inquisition looted his corpse. The final indignity._

A long, rambling passage follows that is scratched out with such vehemence there are holes in the paper.

_The fucking inquisitor weakened me with it in battle. We defeated those elves in the temple, but we couldn’t defeat her or her companions. Without my armour-- they crushed us. I don’t understand why they didn’t kill me at the Well. Maybe they want answers from me. After what they did -- they can fuck themselves square in the arse, I’m not giving them the satisfaction. If you receive this, tell the Master--  
_

Once again the letter breaks. She looks to Cullen, “Have you read the whole letter?”

He nods. “I learned more from that letter than from anything else he’s uttered since he came to Skyhold.”

“I heard you spoke with him,” she says.

Cullen looks away and doesn’t answer. She senses that is a conversation for another time, so she keeps reading.

_The inquisitor is-- cocky. I can hear you laughing now. General Samson, calling others cocky? I know I bloody am, but so is she. The first time I saw her at the Well of Sorrows with her Qunari and the fucking Seeker, Maker. She tossed her hair back like a fucking Queen when she bought out that rune. I’d never felt my anger so, fuck it, what is the word -- so tangible? Here in this fucking fortress she’s too precious to bother with me._

_I underestimated them. Now I’m here, at the mercy of others, yet again._

_You know how I said I was questioning myself? My mind is -- not clear -- and I don’t know if it’s something bothering my conscience or if it’s the hunger for Lyrium in my huge gut. It’s just not ending. With the red I knew everything, it gave me purpose, it gave me clarity. Now -- there’s a huge fucking hole in the dungeons here where the river flows underneath. It wouldn’t take much. I could just shove the jailer. My arms and legs are always shackled so I wouldn’t be able to struggle in the water. A peaceful death so I’m told. Better if I just cracked my head on the stone as I went down._

_But I can’t. Maybe Cullen’s right, I am weak. A tortured man unable to even kill himself right._

_He’s different since he left Kirkwall ya know? You’d hardly recognise him. He’s lyrium free, Maker knows how. And here I am alone, with nothing but my thoughts and the occasional vial of blue._

Again the letter trails off, but there is no more following.

“Should we have him on suicide watch?” She asks.

“I’m not sure it’s necessary. He’s had ample opportunity, but he’s not the type. But perhaps if you wish to speak with him, just ensure you have someone with you.”

She gives a restrained laugh. “Thank you for your concern.” She rubs her arms again before continuing, “What was he like? Before all of this this, before red lyrium and Corypheus? Give me an honest assessment, Cullen. What exactly is his ‘type’?”

Cullen rubs the back of his neck, like he always does when he’s not sure what to say. She’s learnt his body language well enough to know.

“Tell me,” she says again and folds her arms in front of her.

Cullen sighs. “He always had a soft spot. For the mages that is. He rode those under him hard, but they liked him, no doubt he knew how to attract loyalty. He didn’t like the treatment that either the mages or the younger Templar recruits had under Meredith. Before that he was like any other Templar I’d met, conscientious for the most part and did his duty without complaint. Not that I could have told you much more. He was --" He looks away nervously.

“What?” She tilts her head to the side to try and capture his gaze again.

“Like I said, he was a good man once. But whatever happened to him, he isn’t a good man anymore, Inquisitor. You need to be wary.”

“You don’t seem so sure of that. Do you think if you had stayed-- you might have stopped it?” She asks.

Cullen shakes his head and laughs, “That’s the same question Samson asked. And the answer is, I don’t know. I could just as easily have taken his place.”

She crosses to the other side of the war table and lays a hand on his. She can feel the warmth through his glove.

“If you want, Dagna shouldn’t need him on occasions. He might be useful with some maps and we need to clear out the rest of those Templars in Emprise du Lion sooner rather than later.” She passes the letters back to him.

Cullen nods and they both turn to leave. “What shall we do with them?”

The draught in the room picks up and the chill reaches the back of her neck. She shivers and looks around.

“First, don’t put him in chains anymore. The letters -- put them back where you found them. They’re all he has left, his words and a Martyr’s regret.”

_The streets of Kirkwall at night are quiet, so this time it’s hard not to notice him. It was the same man from the docks. He was leaning against a stone pillar in Lowtown’s market place._

_“Are you following me?” Samson asked him._

_The old man laughed and nodded, “I might be, I might not be.”_

_Samson looked at him quizzically, “What the hell does that mean?”_

_“It means I might just be here, minding my own business. Or I might be here, observing you,” he replied. The man had a crooked smile and Samson could see, even in the dim light of the square, his hair looked to be falling out._

_“What do you want? Lyrium? I’ve none to spare if that’s what you’re after,” he said. Samson thought to leave but something in the way the man stood, the way his eyes seemed so bright made him stay._

_Again the man laughed. “I don’t want your lyrium. No need.”_

_“What do you bloody well want then?” He grimaced and clenched his fists. He still was fit enough to fight, if this man was trouble there was no doubt in Samson’s mind he could easily best him._

_“Enjoy your drink, Templar Samson,” he said before he turned his back and walked away._

_Samson relaxed his jaw and thought to follow him but decided that it wasn’t worth his time. So he knew who he was, it wasn’t a secret. His gut ached and a tankard of ale was what he craved. He craved something else too, but the Rose would no longer have him. It would have to be the Hanged Man. They weren’t precious about their clientele and he’d had enough of this cryptic nonsense._

_Inside the Hanged Man, it was warm and no one gave him a second look when he walked in through the heavy doors. He passed silvers over the bar and the keep gave him a large tankard of Kirkwall’s best brew. At least that’s what they told people it was._

_He found a spot in the corner, sat down with his back to the wall and sipped at the froth. The background noise was soothing and the cold beer didn’t take long to warm in his belly. He looked up when a small entourage of people entered. He recognised her immediately, the one they called the Champion. She was laughing and her arm was around a small, pretty elf. He sneered and looked down into his ale, he’d like to have had that life, joy in the company of friends, but it appeared fate had something else planned for him._

_He drank the rest of the ale quickly then ordered another. There would be no comfort in it, now his thoughts were soured, but it wouldn’t matter the drunker he became. Reflections on the order, Meredith, Cullen and Maddox and those others left behind, Mages and young Templar’s alike, were dulled by the heady, bitter brew._

_This would not be the last time he sought refuge at the Hanged Man, nor the last time he’d see the Champion. Most definite of all, it would not be the last time he would cross paths with the strange old man dressed in ‘not quite a warden’ clothing._


End file.
